Tales of Childhood
by angielsdaemons
Summary: Sometimes, growing up can be a very painful experience. Drabble shots based on childhood and loss of innocence: AU: slight fluff:  slight shipping: possible ooc-ness. Chapter 5: Canada, The Colors of Summer
1. Big Brother

**Big Brother**

Characters: China (Yao), Japan (Kiku), South Korea (Yong Soo)

Bunny's note: This story includes homosexual relationships and homophobia.

Disclaimer: Wait, why am I doing a disclaimer? Hetalia Axis Powers is mine because I wrote history and stole the copyright from Himaruya-sensei.

* * *

**Shanghai, 1894**

The corridor was dark, lit only by a single flickering oil lamp, the silent veils masking the sound of soft footfalls as two boys padded across the wooden floor. The older of the two was ten-year-old Kiku; the other his brother Yong Soo who had just turned eight.

The night was cloudy with barely any moonlight penetrating the windows along the corridor. Mother and father should have been asleep long ago and big brother Yao should have come to say good night. None of this happened. Neither said a word, yet their thoughts were the same: 'where was father? Where was mother? Where is my big brother?'

Somehow, they didn't think they would like the answer.

The boys loved their brother. Although he was eighteen (a very grown up age), he always had time for them, always stopped to bandage a scraped knee and comforted them when they had nightmares. Sometimes (and these times couldn't help but be numerous), they felt their brother loved them more than their parents ever could.

"Absolutely not! I will not hear of such a-… a foolish idea!" Their father's voice tore through the dark veils, causing both boys to freeze in their tracks.

"But father, please at least tell me why you do not agree." Yao's voice, desperate, pleading seemingly cracking under strain. He didn't need his father to tell him why, he could practically write a book listing down every single thing that was wrong, but asking for reasons gave him hope, however empty they might be.

The patter of bare feet on wood intensified as Kiku and Yong Soo hurried towards their father's study where a long sliver of light sliced the oaken floor apart.

From their position, the interior of the room was thrown into stark detail: father's huge form paced furiously, his footsteps thumping vigorously; mother sat uptight, rigid, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line; Yao had his back to the door but they didn't need to see his face to know its pale, sweat-slicked desperation.

"Yao," harsh, icy voice which did not belong to a mother, "your father and I will on no account agree to your idiocy. Ivan Braginski is a foreigner. You know very well what the foreigners have done to us. They are horrific, barbarians who have looted and plundered from us and left us in ruins! Above all, this-this _foreigner_ is a man!"

"Are they fighting again?" Yong Soo's voice was barely a whisper, but it carried over the outbreak of yelling streaming steadily from within the study. Kiku did not answer.

Ever since Ivan Braginski had walked into their lives, there was always fighting: their parents fought with their brother, their brother tried reasoning until he too cracked and started shouting (this was terrifying in itself for they had never seen their brother lose his cool) and somehow, Ivan Braginski was caught in the tangled mess.

To Yong Soo, Ivan Braginski was rather like an interesting specimen at the zoo: he had blond hair, unlike his own dark tresses, pale lilac eyes (eyes that were fascinating and almost demonic to any small Asian child), and had to be at least six feet tall (a head taller than their father).

Not too long after he had met him, Yong Soo had decided that Ivan Braginski was some sort of alien life-from which did not belong to the naïve, self-centered world children inhabited. He liked to touch people, it seemed, and his favorite 'touch subejct' happened to be his big brother Yao. He was always putting his arm around big brother Yao's shoulder or his waist. Yong Soo found this rather disconcerting: no one, absolutely no one was allowed to touch you, save for family. Still, big brother Yao didn't seem to mind _too_ much; he complained that Ivan shouldn't do such things in front of him (Yong Soo), but he didn't push him away, as his parents said he should, so that probably meant that Ivan was in some way related; but how could he be related when he didn't look anything like them?

Yong Soo often wondered what big brother Yao and Ivan Braginski did when they were alone. He was not allowed to be around when big brother Yao was with 'the scary man' (as Yong Soo called him): Kiku would miraculously appear and drag his away. He had asked Kiku what they did once and his only answer was an evasive 'talking'. This, he found rather odd; he simply couldn't comprehend why people could sit for hours on end, moving only their tongues. Talking was a grown-up sort of thing, which Yong Soo was certain his big brother never engaged in (he was his brother, for God's sake, not a grown-up!). Surely it was a lot more fun outdoors, where there were other children to play with? Even the boats by the river were more interesting. Somehow, Yong Soo had a faint suspicion that Kiku was lying. He would have liked to ask big brother Yao himself, but Kiku said it was rude.

From within the glowing walls, he heard his big brother say something, an inaudible, miserable mutter. His father exploded.

"Idiotic boy! I don't know where I went wrong with you! Hasn't anything I said gone into that thick skull of yours? You are _not_ leaving, on any account. You are the oldest son, for God's sake, you're eighteen! Old enough to earn a living, old enough to be thinking about marrying a good woman and having children! How can you prove yourself to be a great man if you have such preposterous ideas?"

"Yao," their mother spoke again, her voice gentler, almost persuasive, "you're not thinking this through properly. Have you considered your future? How would you live in a world which hates you? Your father and I cannot hate you, you're our son after all, but two men being together is just…" she shuddered, "…just so wrong."

Kiku felt a soft tug on his long sleeve and jumped slightly. Yong Soo's eyes looked eerily opaque in the dim light of the corridor.

"What does mother mean?" He whispered, "Why is it wrong for two men to be together?"

Kiku stared at his younger brother, lost for words. He felt his mouth go dry. What should he say? What _could_ he say? That men were supposed to marry women and have children afterwards? Should he perhaps tell Yong Soo 'big brother Yao is wrong to love another man and should marry a woman instead'? That was of course, the logically right answer, but Kiku couldn't bring himself to say it. If he did, it would be the same as admitting that big brother Yao was wrong, and he couldn't, _wouldn't_ believe that big brother Yao could ever be wrong. Big brother Yao was the good boy of the family, helpful, caring and loving. He could _never_ be wrong!

It was strange and uncomfortable for the ten-year-old to think of two men getting married, but these weren't ordinary men; one was his brother and the other, his brother's lover.

No, that couldn't be right! 'Lover' was a word used for a woman whom a man loved, not a man whom _another_ man loved!

_Why was life so confusing?_

"I think it's ok though," Yong Soo pressed on, "mother always told us to love everyone. She said love should be given to all, even the poorer children down the street. Surely aniki is right to love a man too?"

_So young, so innocent, childish little brother. _

Kiku knew too much, learned far too quickly. He had always been able to pick up hints, always been able to read between the lines, always been admired for his apparent gift at reading the atmosphere. Now, he wished he couldn't. How he wished he could just shut his eyes and tell himself that all was well, like Yong Soo, or be blatantly ignorant of the painful grimace big brother Yao wore whenever their parents mentioned 'the foreigner'.

Maybe, if Kiku couldn't read expressions quite as well, he would find it easier to copy his parents and reject his brother's love for Ivan Braginski. After all, a good son would follow his parents' example.

Yao's voice again (and how glad Kiku was that he couldn't see his face).

"I wish I were a woman instead." his voice was low, a pale whisper, and yet, everyone heard it. For a moment, there was silence, eerie ghostly silence. Kiku could hear Yong Soo's shallow breaths, terrified little heart thumping violently while his chest barely moved.

"Very well then," their father's voice rang out. "If you want to be a woman so badly, you can get out of my house."

Silence, silence again, but this time, tangible, sticky, and suffocating; then,

"Aniki!" The grown-ups froze as the study door burst open and Yong Soo barreled straight into his brother's lap. "Aniki, I don't want you to go! You're a really, really nice big brother and you bandage up my wounds for me and read me stories and make really good dumplings and I don't really care if you don't let me swim in the river or if you won't buy me a new kite or if you love a man, but I don't want you to go and I- I-…" Yong Soo began hiccupping into his brother's robe.

Yao's eyes slid to the doorway where Kiku stood, horrified at having been discovered. Their father was gaping, staring in stunted disbelief at his two other sons.

"How long have you two been there?" his face was an ashen gray.

"Umm… well… not so long… we uh…" Kiku began, stuttering wildly. Yong Soo cut across him.

"We heard _everything_!" He wailed with renewed fervor, "Papa, I don't understand! Why is it wrong for aniki to love the scary man? You and Mama always said to love everyone and aniki loves everyone like that boy who coughs all the time and the woman with no house like ours and the scary man too!"

"Yong Soo…" Yao began gently, petting his brother's back, "… it's not what you think. I'm sure…"

"Aniki, I don't understand what you say either!" Yong Soo was reaching a rapid crescendo, "I like being a boy very, very much. Being a girl is so silly! You have to wear those really long dresses and tie up your hair which is very boring and stupid. Girls don't get to play in the river; they just have silly little dolls! I like being a boy, aniki and shouldn't you be really happy that you don't have to be a stupid girl?"

For a while, no one said anything, then, wordlessly, Yao picked Yong Soo up with one hand and walked out the room. Kiku followed silently.

-x-

_I am just a child, please don't hurt me._

_Don't let them come near me_

_Or take me away, to the far and silent land_

_Which grown-ups inhabit._

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Bunny's note: Hello reader =) you may have found this story boring, confusing or both. If you have any questions, feel free to ask. Constructive criticism is appreciated.

As you probably noticed, I dropped Yao's 'aru'. I've always found it rather cute, which doesn't really seem to suit the mood of the story.


	2. Hide and Seek

**Hide and Seek**

Characters: North Italy (Feliciano), Germany (Ludwig)

Based on the poem "Hide and Seek" by Vernon Scannel

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The sun was warm, casting its honey gold rays over the heads of the children below. Sunlight streamed through a window, lighting up the eager, sweat-slicked nine-year-old face; five minutes more and the bell would ring, and then they would stream into the playground, shrill voices filling the air.

As the clock struck two, classroom doors burst open and children flooded over the asphalt. They clambered to the top of the slides and swung themselves on the swings. They laughed and squealed, tackling each other to the ground, neatly ironed shirts becoming rapidly more crumpled. However, not all the children joined in the fun.

In the corner of the playground, hidden beneath the shady oak leaves, sat a boy, hugging his knees, face overcast with something almost akin to envy, which didn't quite suit the childishly plump face. How he wished to slide down the slide or swing on the swing! How he wished that for once, just once, he too would be allowed to run across the huge green fields, laughing as he chased the running feet. But they wouldn't let him. They pushed him away, childish voices singing in mockery: crybaby! Silly Italian! What happened to your voice? Did you cry too much?

Back home in Italy, he had been popular. The other children liked him; they crowded around him at lunch time and admired his paintings; he had had lots of friends. Here in Germany however, the other children laughed at him; they told him drawing was silly, not quite as useful as math or science. They were larger than he were, and although he had been good in football back in Italy, here football often left him with a black eye and bitterly shamed heart.

Sometimes, Feliciano wondered if there was something wrong with him. He had always been proud to be Italian, proud of his culture and heritage, but now, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, he had been wrong. How could being Italian be a good thing when everyone else mocked you, when the German children laughed at you, your accent, your fetish for pasta, your everything?

And then, there was his voice. It was certainly high but other than that, there was nothing wrong with his voice. Surely it was just as good as everyone else's! But no; how could it be a good voice when it was so much higher, squeakier, and made him sound like a five-year-old girl?

"Feliciano! Hey Feliciano Vargas, over here!" Across the playground, there were children waving at him, beckoning him over, their faces hazy in the afternoon heat. A small balloon of hope swelled within him as he climbed, almost languidly to his feet and crossed over to them, tentatively at first, before breaking into a run.

"Hey, Feliciano, we want you to play hide-and-seek with us!" A boy at the front with his hands on his hips, whom he took to be the leader, barked. Joy swelled in his chest and Feliciano's small face broke into a huge smile. He nodded.

"Very well then," the boy continued on bossily, "I shall count and the rest of you shall hide, is that clear?" All around him, small heads nodded. Behind him, a girl nudged her friend who stifled a giggle.

"All right then. Ready?" One… two…" off went the small Italian child, tiny legs carrying him as quickly as they could. Where should he hide? Not the bushes, that was too obvious; the oak tree wouldn't do as a hiding spot either; but what about the tool shed? Yes, that was a marvelous place to hide. Only the gardener went in there and he would have gone home by then.

Quickly, Feliciano slipped his small form into the shed's cool interior. Against the back wall sat a pile of sacks filled with damp earth. A tiny space remained between the sacks and the wall, just right for a child to fit into. What a wonderful place to hide! Surely no one would find him there!

The tool shed was a small, musty, dank little room, gardening tools cluttering the cramped space. From his position behind the sacks, Feliciano could see with brilliant clarity, a rake looming up at him in the corner. In the gloom, the rake resembled the claws of a terrible monster, waiting to pounce on him and shred him to pieces.

The longer he sat waiting, the more he disliked the shed. It was cold, unfeeling, unlike the warm playground outside, filled with sunshine and laughter. The shed made terrifying noises, squeaking and scraping, scratching and hissing, like angry beasts. Feliciano remembered the stories his grandfather told him; anything could happen in the dark: small boys could be eaten by hungry, prowling animals; some strange creature could materialize out of nowhere and dig his eyes out. Anything could happen in the salty, suffocating dark.

Feliciano rather wished that someone would find him. It didn't really matter if it meant losing the game. He wanted to go home: his fratello would have made delicious pasta (oh how comforting pasta was in the dark, like an angel descending on a war-torn world); he wanted to go outside, where there were other children, where the angry beasts wouldn't get him; he was certain it was way past the time for his siesta, but he couldn't go to sleep now! (What if the beasts got him while he slept?); he wanted to cry, but that certainly wouldn't do! The other children would call him a crybaby. It was the first time they had asked him to play with them, and he didn't want to mess up! It felt like he had waited hours, but perhaps he was just impatient.

How long had he been there?

"Feliciano?" A voice called softly from the door, "Feliciano, are you still here?" In the light streaming in from the doorway, Feliciano could see the figure of boy clearly. He was Ludwig Beilschmidt, a boy he knew but barely spoke to. How wonderful sunlight looked after being in the dark! How wonderful Ludwig was, standing there, like a savior! Quickly, he scrambled out of his hiding place. Ludwig's expression was one of worry.

"Mein gott, Feliciano, you _are_ still here!" Ludwig sounded almost angry.

"Ve, Ludwig, you found me!" Feliciano couldn't help the huge wave of relief sweeping over him, "you won! Am I the last?" He would have cried from relief, but then Ludwig would laugh and tell the other children about it. It could have been a trick of the light, but Feliciano thought he saw Ludwig's eyes darken, a flicker of guilt crossing his face.

"Yes, you're the last. You're really good at hiding, Feliciano." Feliciano giggled happily and made to push his way past Ludwig but was stopped by his outstretched hand.

"Feliciano," Ludwig's voice was slow, deliberate, as though struggling to find the right words.

"Yes?"

Ludwig took a deep shuddering breath, opened his mouth as if to say something, and shook his head.

Feliciano smiled and pushed his way past Ludwig. He stopped. Something was wrong. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long sloping rays over the darkening, lifeless playground. Away in the distance, a church bell tolled.

Where were the other children?

-x-

Call out, call loud -  
"I'm ready. Come and find me!"  
The sacks in the tool-shed smell like the seaside.  
They'll never find you in the salty dark,  
But be careful that your feet aren't sticking out,  
Wiser not to risk another shout.  
The floor is cold.  
They'll probably be searching the bushes, near the swing.  
Whatever happens you mustn't sneeze  
When they come prowling in.  
And here they are, whispering at the door  
You've never heard them sound so hushed before.  
Don't breathe, don't move, stay dumb.  
Hide in your blindness, they're moving closer  
Someone stumbles, mutters  
Their words and laughter scuttle and they're gone,  
But don't come out just yet, they'll try the lane  
And then the greenhouse and back here again.  
They must be thinking that you're very clever,  
Getting more puzzled as they search all over.  
It seems a long time since they went away.  
Your legs are stiff, the cold bites through your coat.  
The dark damp smell of sand moves in your throat.  
It's time to let them know that you're the winner  
Push off the sacks, uncurl and stretch.  
That's better! Out of the shed and call to them -  
"I've won! Here I am! Come and own up! I've caught you!"  
The darkening garden watches, nothing stirs  
The bushes hold their breath, the sun is gone  
Yes, here you are - But where are they who sought you?

-Vernon Scannel-

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Bunny's note: This is so short! *sobs* Anyways, I decided to do a series based on childhood. I don't really know what will be up next, but it will most likely be Austria/ Hungary.


	3. The Games We Play

**The Games We Play**

Characters: France (Francis), England (Arthur)

Bunny's note: Sorry for the French… the only French I know at all has been picked up from fan fiction.

Also, thank you for the lovely reviews: lady-ribbon, forevergamegirl, haraguro-tan, KitakLaw

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**Summer, 1939**

The first thing Arthur noticed when he got on the bus was that his usual seat at the very end by the window was taken. The perpetrator was someone he had never seen before. Unlike most of the village children, this boy bore the exquisite, elegant air of someone who had been well-cared for. He sat, resting on one elbow, his expression one of bored contemptuousness.

"Hey," The boys cerulean blue eyes slid in his direction, "you're in my seat." Next to this stranger, Arthur felt horribly unkempt in his smudged shorts and un-brushed hair.

"I was here first, cher." The boy had a distinct French accent, which grated on Arthur's nerves.

"I always sit there," he said rather loudly. To his surprise, the boy's lips quirked upwards.

"Perhaps we could share?"

"No."

"Come now, cheri, I like this seat too, you know."

"No. That seat's only meant for one person." The boy's smirk never left his face as he leaned over, his breath tickling Arthur's ear.

"You can sit on my lap." Arthur gagged violently, gaping in stunted disbelief, his face growing warm as he struggled for words, rendered incoherent by the strange boy.

_Who is he?_

The boy leaned back in his seat, eyeing him amusedly. Finally, Arthur stormed off to the front of the bus, admitting defeat.

-x-

Summer afternoons were often hazy, where the invisible lines separating reality and fantasy became blurred in the seductive heat. The sun winked at him through the leafy curtains. Francis liked the forest. He liked its cool arms, it soothing whispers, the strange feeling of tranquility rushing through him.

"Die, witch, die! You shall never succeed in your evil plans!" There followed the sound of something heavy crashing through bushes and loud shrieks of triumph. Francis cringed inwardly as the resounding battle cries grated on his ears.

Heading towards the direction of the sound, Francis was met with a rather unusual sight. A boy, alone in a clearing, his back to him and wielding a long wooden stick, swung wildly at thin air, shrieking all sorts of profanities.

"Die you bloody wanker! Die you rotten old hag! Die!" The boy collapsed to the ground, panting heavily, before once again leaping to his feet.

"And the evil witch of eternal darkness is vanquished!" He shouted, brandishing the stick above his head, one hand on his hip, "the kingdom is at peace once again!"

By now, Francis had managed to catch a glimpse of the boy's face. Oddly enough, it was the boy he had met that morning on the bus.

Suddenly, the boy turned and emerald orbs locked with cerulean ones. For a moment, both stared, frozen, at each other, then the other boy yelled.

"You!" A single, trembling index finger pointed dramatically at him, "You've been following me!" Francis felt an embarrassing, unexplainable warmth creep up his face.

"Why have you been following me?" The boy had stormed across the field and now stood, arms folded, glaring at Francis. The boy was several inches shorter. For one brief moment, Francis couldn't help thinking the boy's ridiculously thick eyebrows looked like caterpillars.

"Well?" He demanded. For a moment, Francis found himself lost for words. The boy's chest was heaving heavily, eyes wide, as if he had caught someone stealing red-handed. If he wanted to avoid the wooden stick coming anywhere near his face, he would have to think fast.

"I can assure you cher, I was not following you," he said smoothly.

"Oh yeah? Prove it!" The boy's oddly childish glare darkened. Francis smirked slightly; somehow (he didn't know how), he found the boy adorable. Deciding to ignore the question, he held out his hand.

"Francis," he said, wondering if perhaps the boy would slap his hand away. He could practically see the other boy fumbling between his options before shaking his hand rather reluctantly.

"Arthur Kirkland," his eyes were averted.

"'Arthur'", he allowed the name to roll slowly off his tongue, tasting every syllable, "so adorable." Arthur blushed furiously and let out a low growl.

"If you're here simply to annoy me, then you-,"

"Where are we?"

"What?"

"Honestly cher, you need your ears inspected." Shaking his head in mock dejection, Francis gestured towards the clearing, "I said, 'where are we'?"

"A forest of course," Arthur crossed his arms, "or are you too stupid to realize that?" Francis sighed.

"Honestly, mon ami, you lack… finesse." Arthur growled, "I mean, where is this place?" For a moment, Arthur considered ignoring the other.

"The Kingdom of North Cameron," he replied, "my kingdom."

Somehow or other, Francis ended up spending the rest of his afternoon rescuing the residents of the Southern Villages which were under attack from goblins.

It was an unwritten agreement, one they never spoke of, and one which Arthur denied to himself each night before he went to sleep. Every afternoon, somehow, inexplicably, they would both find themselves traversing the same dirt track, toward the clearing.

-x-

"So, King Arthur, pray, tell me, what wonderful deeds are we to perform today?" Francis smirked as he mock-bowed.

"The beautiful Princess Valencia is trapped in a castle, guarded by a dastardly dragon." Arthur said boldly as he drew his sword from its hilt and waved it over his head.

"Mm hmm, does that mean I get to marry her?" Francis watched the excited Arthur through half lidded eyes, knowing full well the answer even before it came.

"What? No! _I'm_ the king here!" And exactly as he had anticipated, Arthur turned a brilliant shade of crimson, rendered incoherent by the very idea. How _could _a frog marry a princess?

"But cher, if you are to marry the princess, then what role do I play?"

"Well you're certainly no knight in shining armor." Arthur muttered.

"Oui, I am no knight. Imagine moi, lumbering around in a stuffy chunk of metal." Francis gave an exaggerated shudder, "But…" Francis got slowly, languidly, to his feet, delicately brushing off a stray leaf, "This is disturbing mon ami, surely I must be wrong. Surely I cannot be subjected to such a delicate role, as perhaps, that of the princess?"

"What?"

"Oh come now Arthur, how unrefined," shaking his head dejectedly, Francis continued on, "surely I should be the prince and you the princess? Then I will gallop through the open window on horseback, you will climb up next to me, and together, we shall ride into the sunset. Of course, if I am not mistaken, this little episode involves a lovely kiss…"

"S-shut up!" Arthur's face was the color of beetroot, "you're insufferable! You're forgetting I'm the king of this kingdom! King Arthur, the protector!"

"Mon cher Arthur, surely you mean 'Queen Arthur'?"

"Bloody hell, are all French people as annoying as you are or is it natural talent?"

"Mon petit Arthur, you need lessons on l'amour."

"Can you stop the bloody French talk? I'm getting quite sick of it."

"Why? I'm having so much fun!"

"You're horrible! I'm going home." Arthur, whose ears resembled raw beef, swung his school bag over his shoulder and stormed off towards the lane. Francis, still smiling, called after him.

"But Arthur, you haven't rescued Princess Valencia yet!"

-x-

It was a rather odd thing really, that Francis and Arthur were friends. They were strikingly different in almost all aspects: Francis was open, friendly, and, despite his young age, flirtatious to a point where some chose to avoid him; Arthur, on the other hand, was reserved, sulky, almost an outcast.

It would be a severe misconception to assume that they got on splendidly. They never spoke in school, and one would never have guessed that they even knew the other's name. The only times they ever spoke to each other was in the warm, leafy clearing with the brook running through, and even then, their meetings often ended with Arthur storming away red-faced and Francis doubled over with laughter. Nevertheless, they returned every day after school to the sun-kissed clearing. There was something strange, fantastic almost, about their little secret, about a magical kingdom which belonged solely to them.

And so, the lazy July afternoons wandered by, each one bearing witness to the wonderful adventures and daring escapades which took place in the Kingdom of North Cameron. After a while, July left and in came August, heavy, thundery, in her coarse beauty.

**31 August, 1939**

"I have something for you." Arthur was blushing furiously again, his hand twisting the edge of his shirt. A devious smirk spread across Francis' face.

"A kiss perhaps? From a lovely queen to her dashing king?" Arthur almost gagged on his tongue.

"Of course not you stupid frog!" He snapped, as he fumbled in his pocket, finally producing a smooth, green stone. It was almost flat, casting spots of emerald into the overhanging foliage.

"My mum said to give it to a friend," Arthur grinned proudly, "she said if I did that, we would be best friends forever." Francis felt something swell in his throat.

"Merci," and for the first time in his life, Francis was truly grateful.

-x-

September came the very next day, bringing with her the rain which fell in sheaves, turning the lands to a clear golden color. When Arthur returned to school however, something was different, almost feverish in fearful excitement, whispers rushing swiftly, rhythmically through corridors. 'Did you hear?' the whispers sang, 'Great Britain has declared war on Germany! What's going to happen to us?'

And amidst all the hissing and fearful glances, Arthur remained shrouded among confused veils. The rumors sent small shivers, horrible shuddering shivers rushing down his spine.

When afternoon came, and the school bell clanged, Arthur ran, ran faster than his legs could take him; and he didn't stop, until he collapsed, panting in the small clearing, clutching a stitch in his side, and wondering why he felt that something had gone horribly wrong.

For a while, he waited; then, as impatience began swelling rapidly in his throat, he climbed to his feet and decided to head out. But no, he should be a little more patient. Perhaps Francis was already on his way. So, Arthur sat back down.

_Francis is coming; he will come; he hasn't not come before; he'll be here soon._

_I'm going to find him._

The sky above was brilliant orange. The road ahead basked in the golden autumn sun; the smell of acacias mingled with ozone; rain was coming.

Arthur knew where Francis lived. He had never been to the older boy's house, but he knew the address, had seen his house every time the school bus passed.

_So where is he?_

Francis had not been in school that day; perhaps he was ill! But no, he had been fine only yesterday!

He stopped; stopped outside the house he knew Francis lived in, but he didn't want to go in; he knew the house, knew who it belonged to, and yet, somehow, he didn't know. It was strange, unfamiliar, unwelcoming.

"Francis?" No answer, "Francis, are you here?" There was a woman, a thin, rather old woman, sweeping serenely and a small pile of leaves.

"Oh hello," she said, a slight smile playing on her lips, "are you looking for someone?"

"Where's everyone?" Arthur's hated how his voice shook, how suddenly weak he sounded, "Where's Francis?"

"Oh you mean the little boy here? Such a lovely child too," she sighed, "they left you know."

"W-what?"

_She was lying; she had to be lying; she had to; Francis wasn't gone, he would come back anytime soon, he-he…_

"They left," the woman repeated simply, "they left this morning, after they heard about the war." She's lying; it can't be true; it can't; Francis wouldn't; he wouldn't…

_He wouldn't leave me here._

"Hey," she stared closely at him, "aren't you Arthur? I have something for you." Her hand fumbled through her apron pocket before retrieving something. Sitting in the center of her milky, wrinkled palm, was a smooth, glittering emerald stone.

* * *

Bunny's note: Ugh… this sucks. I'm really sorry for the horrible quality, especially since I've been away for three weeks (blame exams for the late chapter) and this chapter sounds so much like I'm rambling =( and poor Artie sounds off character.

I'm not promising who or what I'll do next, seeing that I didn't do Austria/Hungary like I intended to. That chapter was almost done until I realized that Hungary was ooc. I'll need to read more of her fics…

12 April edit: The time line is incorrect. Britain and France declared war on Nazi Germany several days after the invasion of Poland.


	4. Disbelieving

**Disbelieving**

Characters: Romano/ South Italy (Lovino)

Bunny's note: This is a T-rated chapter. Also, possible ooc-ness…

Thank you for the lovely reviews!

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A soft babble of voices streamed out through the half open door. From within, glasses chinked and a woman's laugh sounded.

Outside in the darkened balcony, a boy stood scowling, his back pressed against the railing. Cocktail parties were incredibly dull affairs; there were no games, no proper food and no drinks fit for an eleven-year-old, or so he had been told. Grown-ups too, were dull creatures; somehow (it was quite amazing how), adults were content sitting for hours, moving only their tongues.

Lovino groaned and sank to the floor; he was bored; so very, incurably bored; cocktail parties were stupid, useless affairs held by stupid, useless people.

The glass door to the balcony slid fully open, revealing the silhouette of a man, his brow high and nose hawk-like. Lovino knew him-Mr. Carlo Luigi, a man just past his fortieth year, renowned for his fine wines and luxurious new Porsche; also another blasted neighbor, he thought bitterly.

"Good evening, Lovino," Mr. Luigi smiled; his eyes were oddly glazed. Lovino, climbing slowly to his feet, did not reply. Mr. Luigi leaned over the railing, taking a long puff from his rather thick cigar, all the while puffing smoke from his nostrils.

"Lovely evening," he took another long puff; his breath reeked of alcohol. An ambulance wailed by in the street below. Lovino shot him a swift glance; Mr. Luigi's smile was almost benign as he shifted abruptly closer.

"How's school?" Lovino let out an involuntary gasped; calloused, bony fingers travelled up the back of his thigh, fingering his cool flesh, past the hem of his shorts…

"Hey!" Disgust surged violently in his throat as he struggled out of the older man's grasp; his mouth felt horribly dry while his heart pounded furiously against his ribcage; he wanted to throw up, "what the f*** are you doing?"

"Such nasty words, coming from such a sweet little boy like yourself," Mr. Luigi shook his head almost mockingly; his voice was a low purr, greedy with lust, "relax boy. You'll enjoy this."

"Get off me, you son of a b****!" The works were strangled, wrenched forcibly from his throat; at least, what he knew was supposed to be his throat. It felt almost like he was floating underwater, his own voice shouting blindly, controlled by a stranger, but muffled, as if through a thick veil. Dimly, he could feel his chest heaving, icy skin drenched in sweat, "what the f*** is wrong with you?"

There came a sharp flurry of footsteps from behind the glass door as several curious faces emerged. His mother pushed towards the front of the crowd, a look of horror distorting her rather naïve features.

"Lovino!" Her expression was pale with shock, "what happened? Why did you swear like that?"

"He-he-he…" why wasn't his voice coming? He felt violated, sickened by the monster before him, so where was his voice? Why couldn't he open his mouth and f***ing _say_ something? Mr. Luigi's face was smooth, wiped blank from his previous greed. Suddenly, he felt something ugly, twisted erupt within him, or at least, from a part that he knew was meant to be part of him, but which now seemed to be strung up and tugged at mercilessly by the stranger.

"He was… he was… touching me." A voice, tainted by anger and disgust, was spat by the stranger from his mouth. There was a stunned, deadened silence. Then, his mother spoke again, softly, as if comforting a very small child.

"Darling," she said softly, soothingly, "I think you're tired. It's late you know… maybe you need something to eat…" Dimly, Lovino felt a smooth, gloved hand on his shoulder, steering him gently towards the glass doors, back into the sickeningly colorful room, and onto a plush sofa.

"Here you go darling," a small, thinly made sandwich was pushed into his palm, "I know I shouldn't have brought you here. You must have been really hungry and bored. It's alright honey, I'll take you home and it'll all be fine-,"

"No!" Anger surged again, bubbling like hot lava in his throat, and once again the stranger cried out, "Mamma, you don't understand! He-this man-this bastard-he…he…"

"Darling," his mother appeared nervous, tugging rapidly at her silk gloves, "I'm sure Mr. Luigi wouldn't… would you, Mr. Luigi?" Her laugh sounded almost hysterical as she cast the older man a half-terrified glance. He returned with a gentle smile, shaking his head in a disgustingly benevolent manner.

"I think your mother is right," he replied smoothly, "maybe you should go home, get yourself to bed, have a nice cup of coco-,"

"Shut up, you bastard, jerk, a**hole-…" Somehow, Lovino heard the stranger again, crying out with his voice, exhausting his extensive vocabulary of curses. His eyes stung and he blinked furiously; no way in hell was he going to cry now! Especially not here, not in front of all the nameless, faceless people. There they all stood, crowded around him in their cocktail dresses, nudging one another and shaking their heads. As the heads shook, mockingly, he felt Him again-that stranger-, His anger exploding within him.

"Don't act all innocent, like you're a prissy little saint or something." He was tired; so very, very tired. Lovino would have been content to sit back and allow the mysterious stranger to take complete control of his body for a while, but then, there was that small, _irritating_ little voice, crying and struggling in the back of his head, which kept him teetering on the edge between drunken sleep and sleeping wake.

At some point, Lovino realized that most people would have panicked at the idea of a stranger wrenching control of their body's into his own hands. Maybe it was foolishness on his part seeing as he _wasn't_ 'panicking', maybe he was just an idiot, but somehow, incredibly, miraculously, he didn't care.

Another figure pushed towards the front of the crowd; a woman, perhaps in her mid-30s stood almost defensively before Mr. Luigi, hands on rather heavy-set hips.

"Are you saying," her voice was slow, deliberate, "that my husband is a, a-… a pervert?" the last word was hissed from behind thickly coated lips.

"Your husband is a monster!" The stranger shouted back, not bothering to keep his voice low, "he is a foul, disgusting, perverted…" He was panting with the effort of spewing insults.

Suicidal. That was it! The stranger was suicidal. And he, Lovino Vargas, was being led like an obedient lamb to the slaughter by the stranger himself.

It was almost funny really, the way everything was playing out. Here he was, trapped in his own body with a stranger who obviously had a death wish. No adult, not even his own mother would stand for all the insults the stranger hurled at Mr. Luigi, and yet, Lovino found he was content to sit back and watch. Hell no, not content! He wanted the stranger to continue! He wanted the stranger to continue and relish in every single delicious insult he threw at the bastard. With a triumphant smirk, he noticed the bastard's face had turned a disquieting shade of magenta.

"Shut your mouth," Mrs. Luigi looked angry enough to have a seizure, "this," she turned to the crowd, voice cold, "is the perfect example of a spoilt, disgusting little brat, a foul liar who doesn't know an ounce of respect-,"

"That's enough," his mother's voice was harsh, "Lovino, I don't know what happened between you and Mr. Luigi but you have no right to talk to an adult like that. Apologize and we'll go home."

I will not apologize!" The stranger's furious shrieks were almost melodious "I didn't do anything wrong. He was the one who-,"

"Lovino," her tone had risen, grown rapidly more threatening, "apologize."

"I won't!" His voice was growing hoarse, his throat parched, blistering from within. It dawned on him that the stranger had been screaming. "I won't I-," Lovino gasped; his cheek stung painfully; the most logical explanation, of course, was that someone had struck him.

Where was the stranger?

Frantically, Lovino felt blindly around for him. Strange as it may sound, the stranger had been oddly comforting. All the curses, all the insults, they had comforted him, had been what the bastard deserved. But now the stranger was gone, and all there was left was that dull, empty void pooling in the pits of his stomach and dragging him down slowly into a blissfully blank abyss.

His eyes felt viciously hot, and he knew tears had gathered at the edges, spilling over, leaving hot trails in their wake. His mother was trembling slightly, her chest heaving as if she had run several miles. She looked almost regretful.

"Come on Lovi," and again he felt a gloved hand on his shoulder, steering him towards the oak door and the colorful welcome signs, towards the elevator, down and down, sinking further, until it pinged loudly, out into the parking lot, into the car, engine revved up, and they were off.

How oddly routine.

All the way home, his mother was quite. She sniffed, occasionally, but otherwise, she didn't say a thing. Finally, they pulled into an empty spot, but neither made to get out of the car. His mother just sat there, sniffing quietly.

"Lovi darling," the cry was so quite; Lovino wandered if perhaps, he had misheard, but he saw his mother's lips move, fumbling with unformed words. "Honey… I'm sorry for slapping you earlier."

Oh.

Lovino let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. What had he been expecting? Did he perhaps want her to say that she believed him? That he wasn't a liar?

"You don't believe me, do you?" It was shocking how monotonous he sounded. Normally, he just sounded angry. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

"I don't know," her voice was muffled behind the gloves she had buried her face into, "I honestly don't know. It seems so illogical! Mr. Luigi is such a nice man… but I didn't think you would lie like that." Her voice had become more and more hysterical. And as if watching the scene from afar, Lovino heard the words fall, monotonous, memorized line from his lips,

"I'm sorry mamma. I was very rude to Mr. Luigi. Let's go upstairs now." His mother gave him a watery smile.

A child has no place in an adult's world. A child is small, simple, foolish; right is always rewarded and wrong always punished. An adult on the other hand, is complicated, mysterious; in his world, there is neither right nor wrong, neither rewards nor punishments.

There is just him, in a dull, empty void.

Innocence and ignorance brings joys, but an adult has neither.

There were those like Mr. Luigi, who had perhaps forgotten what it was like to grow up. Then there were those like his mother, who clung helplessly to non-existent hope, wishing for the joys of ignorance they had for so long forfeited.

It was rather odd, now that he thought about it, but the stranger, he realized, was knowledge, revelation. Knowledge brings power and understanding to those who wield it, but those who wield Ignorance are the ones least hurt.

Years later, Lovino wondered how he could have been foolish enough to hope someone would believe him when he no longer believed himself.

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Bunny's note: The name 'Mr. Luigi' was chosen entirely at random, and holds no connotation to any person, living or dead, or the Mario game character.

This story sucks. You probably realize this, since you're reading the end notes. Nevertheless, thank you for wasting several minutes of your life for me =)


	5. The Colors of Summer

**The Colors of Summer**

Characters: Canada (Matthew), England (Arthur), America (Alfred), France (Francis)

Bunny's notes: FACE family, homophobia etc. etc. In angelsxdemons' head-canon, Al and Mattie call Francis 'Papa' and Arthur 'Dad' or 'Daddy'. This was not written to offend any teachers out there. Ms. Brooklyn is simply modeled after several horrible teachers this author had the misfortune of meeting. Also, this fic is Matthew-centric.

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"Well Matthew," long, carefully manicured nails drummed against the brilliantly crayoned sheet, "can you read?"

Six-year-old Matthew Williams shifted nervously, chewing hard on his bottom lip, eyes fixed on the polished heels currently tapping along to his heartbeat on the carpet. Nine large, gleaming, plastic diamonds glared up at him from the strap.

Could he read? Yes, yes he could. Not very well perhaps, but better than Alfred anyway. Alfred was never one for books. He rather wished his twin was there with him, but Alfred had stayed home as he had a cold.

Matthew nodded jerkily.

"Then read the instructions on the board please." He turned, small fingers tugging on the long string of his jacket hood. He could feel a dozen pairs of six-year-old eyes fixed on the back of his head. His opened his mouth and out came a stream of incomprehensible gurgling noises.

"What's that boy? Speak up! I can't hear you! And stop fidgeting!" Ms. Brooklyn's harsh bark startled him, and his fingers promptly released the string, arms clamped to his sides in nervous attention. Slowly, he began to read.

"D-d-draw a p-picture of… of your f-family." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Tell me, Matthew, do you understand those instructions?" Nod again, fingers twisting the edge of his shirt, "then would you care to explain why you haven't drawn your family as _specifically_ instructed?"

Matthew cast a frightened glance at the vivid oil-pastel adorning the thick, smooth sheet. Right in the middle, drawn as a wiggly red square, was a house. The walls were too high and the roof a flattened triangle. Grey, lumpy patches hovered over the house, pouring large, bright blue raindrops over it.

True, Matthew hadn't actually _drawn_ his family, but they were there nonetheless! It was raining, you see, so everyone had to go indoors. After all, it was common knowledge that you had to be indoors when it rained, or you would catch a cold. He couldn't draw people, so he made it rain, and everyone went indoors. He would have loved to say that, but he couldn't.

Matthew was only six. Five and a half to be exact. Five-and-a-half, small, and vulnerable. He was not a teenager. Teenagers are prone to rebellion; teachers are no longer terrifying authoritative figures, but rather a person whose presence meant a text message or two and possibly a nap, if one could be snuck in. He was not an adult either. To an adult, a teacher is nothing more than a fellow being, another poor soul struggling for a place in the world. Five-year-olds, however, are nothing like teenagers or adults. To a child, and a painfully shy one at that, teachers are rarely nice. Mostly, they are dangerous, prowling monsters. Ms. Brooklyn fell into the second category.

"You," she jabbed a long, crimson nail at his nose, "will stay after school to redo this picture. Is that clear?" Matthew opened his mouth; he wanted to object, wanted to point out that his picture really _did _have his family in it, just inside the house, and besides, it wasn't really fair! Not when he had put so much effort into a subject he absolutely loathed! But still, he closed his mouth, and nodded silently.

-x-

The air in the classroom was stifling, a suffocating warmth in the sweltering summer heat. Matthew sat in the front row, trying not to look around the lividly colorful walls where large, distorted crayoned shapes swelled and subsided in grotesquely bloated patterns. He pulled Kumajiro closer to his chest. The pictures hated him! He knew it!

Finally, Ms. Brooklyn swept into the classroom, the hem of her long skirt ghosting across the floor. She lowered herself carefully into the teacher's throne, back stiff, and barked,

"Look sharp boy! We don't have all afternoon you know!" She then disappeared behind a book. Matthew quickly retrieved his crayons and a fresh sheet or drawing paper. The blank, stubbornly white sheet stared back unfeelingly at him.

Slowly, Matthew lifted a rotund, too-large crayon, pressed it to the creamy surface and painstakingly brought it around to form a circle.

He leaned back, proudly surveying the squiggly peach-orange line that wormed its way across the paper. It wasn't too bad, surely! Carefully placing his crayon next to the first circle, he made another. It was slightly larger than the first. Not quite as round either. Matthew tilted his head slightly. The second circle looked rather like a deformed egg. Still, he carried on, blunt crayon forming circle after circle, each patchily colored, until he had four, woefully mismatched blobs across his paper.

Now for the eyes.

He would start with Papa's eyes first.

Papa had blue eyes, the exact shade of the cornflowers along the lane, or so Dad had said. Matthew frowned at his collection of crayons; he only had a deep, mournful sea blue and a startlingly angry bright blue. Matthew didn't know very much about colors, but he did know that neither suited his papa. So he decided to do daddy's eyes instead.

Daddy had green eyes, the color of the sunlit spots dancing across the forest floor, as Papa would say. So Matthew picked out a grassy green crayon and scrawled as neatly as his pudgy hand allowed, two almond shapes onto one of the peach blobs. The result, however, was a dirty orange-green, which made him cringe. Even with his limited knowledge of colors, the combination was horrendous.

He did Alfred next. Alfred had blue eyes as well, but they weren't like his papa's. Dad had once described them as being 'cerulean'. It was a rather complicated word for a six-year-old, especially since he had no idea what 'cerulean' meant. Nevertheless, he decided it had to be some sort of blue. Alfred's eyes were blue too!

Matthew sighed. Drawing was certainly rather dull. Ms. Brooklyn looked up sharply from behind her book.

"Are you done, Matthew?"

"No, Ms. Brooklyn."

"No diddle dawdle then. Hurry now, you've been there twenty minutes already."

Diddle dawdle. Dawdle diddle. Diddle dawdle dawdle diddle. Matthew liked the sound of the word. It reminded him of something round. He let out a soft giggle and hastily stopped when Ms. Brooklyn gave him a sharp look.

Returning to his picture, he decided to do the noses next.

Noses were odd things really. Matthew sat for a moment, brooding over them. In truth, they were just two holes in your face. But he couldn't quite well draw two holes! He may have been bad at art, but even _he_ knew that drawing two holes as noses was a recipe for disaster.

Matthew sighed, eyes circling the classroom. On the left wall was a picture of a pretty young woman, sandwiched between two giggling children: a boy and a girl. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood behind them, arms spread wide, like an eagle watching over its chicks; underneath, in bold, black letters, was printed 'family'. All had rather stupid grins plastered on their faces. Matthew couldn't help staring slightly; the family looked somewhat like his own, albeit having several differences, most noticeably, the replacement of a Daddy with a strange female. They had a papa in the background, but who was the pretty young woman?

Deciding to ignore the problem, Matthew turned back to his picture. If he couldn't do noses, he would just have to do mouths. Those were easy enough. He had seen Alfred draw 'U' shapes wherever mouths were concerned. So Matthew, armed with a thick black crayon proceeded to scrawl four lop-sided 'u' shapes where the mouths would have been. The result was four deformed mouths grinning toothlessly up at him. Matthew sighed heavily.

He would do the hair next.

Those were easy too. Just long, squiggly lines, a little like worms. A blinding, sunshine yellow, and ten minutes later, Matthew was left with four reasonably well-drawn people. Perhaps Papa looked a tad bald, but the four figures looked like his family nonetheless. At least, he could tell the four blobs were people.

So, fiddling with a loose thread on the hem of his jacket, Matthew slipped the colorfully mismatched sheet onto the teacher's table. Ms. Brooklyn heaved a huge sigh, marked the page in her book, and set it down with a dull thud. For a moment, she stared, disinterested, and then said in her flat, monotonous manner,

"Very good. Do you mind introducing them to me?" though she probably wouldn't have cared even if they sprouted tusks before her eyes.

"T-this is me," Matthew pointed a shaking finger at one of the disfigured blobs, "that's Al," another blob, "and Papa," a larger blob this time, "and Dad."

"What?" Matthew looked up nervously. Ms. Brooklyn's face was twisted almost comically into a look of utter disbelief. "What are you blabbering about, child? Who is this you say?" Her finger jabbed harshly at the last blob.

"That is my dad, Ms. Brooklyn."

"And this?" The single accusing finger stabbed at the left-most blob.

"That is my papa, Ms. Brooklyn." Matthew tried not to bite his lip. Dad told him it was not nice to do it in front of other people.

"Nonsense!" she snapped, eyes narrowed. "You cannot have a papa _and_ a dad! Which one is your mother?" Matthew's stare fell onto his shoe laces. In truth, he had always wondered why his family didn't have a female figure in it. All the other children at school seemed to have a mother, someone to hold their hands after school and make them delicious lunchboxes he and Al shared whenever Dad had the misfortune of preparing meals.

One of the earliest things Matthew had noticed was that Papa and Daddy never went out together. Sometimes, Papa took Alfred and him shopping; other times, Daddy took them to the cinema or the park.

But they never went together.

It was always either Papa or Daddy, one or the other, always partitioned by an invisible wall.

He remembered asking his Papa about this once. He had been sitting on the kitchen countertop, sulking slightly as Papa stirred cake batter in a large metal bowl. Daddy had gone out with Alfred for groceries but he, Matthew had to stay behind as he had had a fever.

"Papa, can we play hockey tomorrow?"

"Mm…" Francis added a large dollop of butter into the mixture, "alright then, if you're feeling up to it."

"Can Daddy come too?" A brief, unreadable expression flitted across the handsome features.

"No, Mathieu." His answer was oddly short.

"Why ever not?" Matthew had grown impatient, small feet kicking against the marble countertop. "Papa, why do you never go out with Dad?" There was a brief pause. Matthew could feel tears, searing hot, welling up at the corners of his eyes, "do you… do you hate him?" The last sentence fell as a bare whisper, uncertain, childish in its right. For a moment, Matthew remained fearfully silent, watching as his papa swirled the mixture in its bowl, wondering if he had said something wrong.

"I don't hate him _cher_," his papa replied softly. He pushed a spoon covered in batter into the younger boy's mouth, "in fact, I love him very much. But it's complicated. You'll understand when you grow older." Matthew opened his mouth to argue. He was old enough surely! However, before he could speak, the kitchen door flew open and the Alfred rushed in, stumbling slightly with the large bag of groceries in hand.

Until now, Matthew had forgotten about that incident, especially since they had not gone for hockey the next day. Now, as Ms. Brooklyn breathed down his neck like an angry rhinoceros, the question returned, clear as day: why _had_ his parents never gone out together? Was this perhaps the answer? Because there was no 'mother'?

"Do it again, Matthew," she snapped, pushing the picture rather forcefully back into his face, "and this time, make sure you draw your mother."

So Matthew, who was ready to burst into tears, sat back down with a fresh sheet of creamy white drawing paper. And again, he formed the distorted circles that made up the heads, the mismatched eyes and crooked 'U' shapes for the mouths. Only this time, he drew the Daddy-blob with far longer hair, and added a little pink to the mouth like he had seen the girls do.

Twenty minutes later, he found himself once more before Ms. Brooklyn's desk, watching as she scrutinized his picture. Finally, she said,

"You may go now."

Quickly, Matthew stuffed all the crayons into his backpack and made a rush for the door. Outside, the playground was empty, forlorn. The sun had disappeared behind thickening gray clouds. The air smelled of ozone. From overhead, thunder rumbled.

"Mattie! Mattie, over here!" And there was Alfred, bouncing excitedly in the front seat of the car, with Daddy at the wheel looking rather impatient.

"Gosh Mattie, where have you been? Everyone else came out hours ago!" Alfred whined as Matthew climbed into the backseat.

"Where were you Matthew?" Matthew turned a furious scarlet as he stared at his mother-figure from the rearview mirror, "Honestly, I was going to call the police if you didn't turn up soon!" Burning with shame, Matthew tried hiding his face in his jacket. There was nothing left to it.

"Ms. Brooklyn held me back in class." He mumbled, sinking as low as he could into the cushion.

"Why?" So Matthew, in a small voice, told him of the afternoon's drawing class. When he finished, there was a long silence.

"Ms. Brooklyn's a meanie!" Alfred wiggled around in his seat to face Matthew, "don't worry Mattie, I'm the hero! I'll beat up that meanie for you!"

"Al, you can't go around beating people up," said Arthur sharply. Matthew wondered if it was a trick of the light, but his dad looked oddly bitter.

"Why ever not?" Alfred whined, folding his arms across his chest.

"It's not gentlemanly. Or Heroic," he added as Alfred opened his mouth to speak.

"Hey dad," Alfred tugged at Arthur's sleeve, one chubby finger pointing out the window at a brightly colored ice-cream parlor, "can we have ice-cream? Please? We haven't had ice-cream in weeks!" Usually Arthur would have rejected the idea, complained that ice-cream was far too fattening, but…

"Oh alright."

Even before Arthur had pulled the car to a stop, Alfred had already tumbled out of his seat, squirming from excitement, with Matthew following shyly behind. Overhead, thunder clapped as it began to rain.

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Bunny: Angelsxdemons didn't like this chapter very much! Apparently it has something to do with pink instant noodles.

Doggy: *sighs* How did I get stuck with you? Angelsxdemons did not like this chapter. She thinks it was too much like Chapter One. That, and her muse has gone on holiday in the Maldives.

Bunny: Which is why Doggy and I are here, stranded on this beach. We were supposed to be hunting for it, but…

Doggy: You know Bunny, I don't believe this is the Maldives at all. I don't think they speak Russian.

Bunny: I know it isn't. I booked us two tickets to Australia~

Doggy: Why you idiot!

Angelsxdemons: *sighs* Review please~


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